


orpheus

by orphan_account



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Agender Akaashi Keiji, Agender Character, Alternate Universe, DISCLAIMER THEY DO NOT GET TOGETHER, M/M, Moving On, Mythology References, Non-Linear Narrative, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth, Underworld, akaashi is persephone, bokuto is hades, breaking up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 17:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11362164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Kenma closes his eyes, and begins to let go. “Don’t look back.”When he opens them again, Kuroo is gone.





	orpheus

**Orpheus**

 

“You’re making a mistake, Obvious Roots-chan!”

Kenma looks off into the murky distance. It’s only been thirty seconds with this - guy? God? Undercover Male Model? The lines kind of blur when you’re literally being rowed across a river to the Underworld by someone who wears sparkly volleyball jerseys underneath his cloak of death - and he’s already wishing for his PSP. “You wouldn’t understand,” he mutters, drawing his knees up to his chest. No one would - except, hopefully, the one person he needs to convince.

\--

“I’m home!” 

Kenma, of course, is already at the door, where he’s been for the past ten minutes. “You’re fifteen minutes late.”

“Traffic.” Kuroo takes off his shoes. “Were you waiting for me?” He leans down, expecting, and Kenma reaches up to meet him midway. He can feel Kuroo’s smile against his lips, and the feeling lingers there even after they pull away.

“No.”  _ Yes _ . “I made dinner.” He takes the coat that Kuroo shrugs off his shoulders, making a face at the mess of hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s probably cold now.”

“Sorry~” Kuroo trills, wrapping his arms around Kenma’s shoulders before he can even hang the coat up, and he makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. 

“Kuro. Let go.” Kenma starts shifting uncomfortably, but Kuroo is tall and strong and unfair. “You’re being unreasonable-  _ Tetsurou _ .”

That’s always been Kuroo’s weak point, Kenma knows, and his expectations are met when Kuroo leans away like he’s been scalded and spends five minutes making whimpering dog noises. Kenma scoffs and rolls his eyes, going back to the kitchen. Now that Kuroo’s home, he doesn’t need to wait to eat dinner.

He’s just dug into his bowl when Kuroo joins him at the table, still looking distressed. “You’re harassing me, Kenma. You  _ know _ that’s not fair.”

Kenma hides an amused smile behind his chopsticks. “You can call me by my last name, if you’d like.”

“ _ Unfair _ ,” Kuroo insists, sitting down and faceplanting into the table automatically. Kenma stares at him, unsympathetic.

\--

The first thought Kenma gets when he walks into the throne room is-  _ wow, those video games got it really wrong _ .

The second thought is-  _ why are there so many owls _ ?

Sure enough, the bird presents itself in every place the eye can land on: perched atop columns, serving as feet for chairs, feathers scattered across the floor like a satirical impression of home design magazines. The furniture is a cool brown, the tapestries hanging from the marble walls woven from a mottled brown-and-white thread. Despite the lack of natural light, torches lining the walls keep the space bright, and the gentle presence of burning incense overrides the damp smell of death and dirt. 

Overall, the feel for the massive chamber is not at all like the Underworld and very much like someone who had read the instructions for a school project wrong. Kenma is confused for a total of 0.5 seconds before he approaches the grand throne, and suddenly everything makes sense.

The god perched atop the owl-festooned chair looks barely older than Kenma himself, although he knows for a fact that he has been present for nearly as long as the Earth has been turning. He’s seemingly ditched the velvet capes and gold-heeled boots of the gods in Renaissance interpretations, and instead dons a black-and-white outfit comprised of shorts, shoes and a simple T-shirt adorned with pale yellow detail. Most uncanny of all is the hair - spiked up to maximum vertical reach, and dyed silver at the tips to match equally horrific eyebrows. 

_ So this is the ruler of the Underworld _ , Kenma thinks, and can’t find it in himself to be even marginally intimidated.

“Hey, hey, hey!” The god, who had up until a second ago had adorned a look of intense divine boredom, straightens at the sight of a newcomer, stretching his arms above his head in the universal symbol of victory. “Who do we have here?”

“Bokuto-san,” and now there’s a tired voice ringing out from just behind the throne, and the shadows behind the god shift as a second figure steps out, decked in the dazzling white robes expected of a figure of mythology. There’s something inherently beautiful about them – whether it’s the long eyelashes, or the dark, curled hair, or the way the fabric of their robes looks less and less like silk and more like liquid petals the longer Kenma looks – that makes Kenma take a step back, and lower his head in respect. “Please at least try to greet your visitors formally.” They fix a calm, steely gaze at Kenma, sweeping over his body with laser-like focus and precision, and just as Kenma is starting to suffocate they nod to themselves and offer a genuine, breathtaking smile. “Welcome, Kozume Kenma. I know he’s not very godly, but please bow down in respect to Hades, Ruler of the Underworld, God of the Dead.”

Kenma obeys, less out of conscious decision and more like some inhuman force is driving him, and looks up just in time to see Hades let out a whoop in childish glee. Next to him, the god who seems to embody neither gender but instead the very essence of spring seems to be reprimanding him. “Uh…” he raises his hand hesitantly, not wanting to disturb the godly interaction lest he be cursed for the rest of his life.

“Call me Bokuto,” Hades is saying, bouncing up and down in his throne like a little kid on the first day of school. “And this is Persephone, or Akaashi, or whatever. It’s all super complicated and makes my head hurt, but Ushiwaka’s the one who designed the rules, because apparently being able to electrocute someone puts you in charge.” He pouts, but not for long before Akaashi gives him an exasperated look and he gets back to business. “Are you trying to get someone back from the dead? Because it’s not gonna work. I’m fine with whatever, but Akaashi’s the spoilsport here.” He winks at Kenma, earning himself an elbow to the ribs. “They’re the one you have to convince.”

Kenma nods, stepping onto the raised platform in front of the throne. His footfalls echo strangely in the massive chamber, the sound curling around columns and expanding to fill every shadowed corner. “I don’t have any skills,” he says quietly, just loud enough so the two gods across from him can hear. “I’m not good at talking, either, and I’m not a very enjoyable person to be around.”  _ That was always  _ his  _ job _ , comes the unwelcome thought, and Kenma fends off the familiar wave of agony. “My story isn’t very interesting. But,” and he looks up, hoping to convey every thread of thought, every need, every want, the very concept that  _ he cannot exist without Kuroo by his side _ through his eyes alone, hoping against hope that a god who seems more like an overexcited teenage boy and his partner, holding wisdom past even the infinite boundaries of the divine, will understand.

“I need him,” he says, and for once he isn’t acutely aware of the expression he’s making, but both gods recoil at it. “I need to see him.”

\--

Occasionally, usually on the sunniest of days for irony’s sake, Kenma finds himself very, very empty.

It’s not a sad kind of emptiness, an aching, creaking darkness occupying his entire entity. It’s more peaceful, less a lack of anything and more the simple presence of nothing. That being said though, it does get kind of tiring not feeling anything for extended amounts of time, which is why Kenma often invests in the latest games, even the ones he doesn’t like. Being around Kuroo helps, too – the third-year takes up all the space in the world,  _ his _ world, with his endless chatter and long limbs and messy black hair. Unfortunately, he doesn’t understand how important this means to him, to the pleasant rhythm of his life, until the third-year is no longer a third-year.

Until the third-year is waving goodbye to him as they split off in their neighborhood for the last time, diploma rolled up in his hand. Until the third-year is taking a different train to college. Until the third-year starts talking about moving out.

Until the third-year is gone, and he is alone.

It’s a sunny day, the first day of summer break, five months since Kuroo last came home. Kenma shouldn’t be jealous, he knows – just because he’s his longest friend doesn’t mean he’s the most important one. Kuroo, being a 6-foot people magnet of charisma and – Kenma can’t deny this, no matter how hard he tries – good looks, probably has tons of new friends, all older, cooler, less of a burden than the childhood best friend he left behind.

Kenma misses him.

He’s thinking about this, PSP abandoned in his backpack empty and untouched, as the train rattles to a stop, and the familiar bell rings as the doors slide open and the river of rush hour congestion spills out onto the platform. The sunlight cuts through the station air in ribbons of gold, lighting up hair, bags, eyes, a smile. Dust twirls through the beams like little fairies, and despite his disconcern for nearly everything Kenma can’t help but feel something light and airy like hope fill him.

And that’s when he sees him.

He’s standing there, directly under a sunbeam (he probably planned this, tacky asshole), ridiculously messy bedhead and wide shoulders and trademark lazy smirk (this time with a touch of fondness reserved only for a particular pudding-head setter) lit on fire from above. He’s glowing, a little bit ethereal despite his rumpled clothes and the bags under his eyes, and he unflinchingly takes Kenma’s breath away.

“Oh,” Kenma mumbles, because it’s hard to not care about anything when everything he’s ever cared about is right there in front of him. “You’re back. Finally.”

Kuroo grins at him, reaching out to pat his shoulder, hand warm and strong and familiar. “Did you miss me?” he teases.

“No,” he says, looking away, but Kuroo’s laugh tells him that he might as well have told the truth.

\--

“Well played, Kenma,” Bokuto stage-whispers to him, pushing through a curtain seemingly made of completely opaque ink. “Gay love. That’s the one thing Akaashi has a soft spot for.”

“I can hear you, Bokuto-san,” comes the dry reply from up ahead. “I have made it clear that I think this is a terrible idea.”

“Trust me,” and then the rest of Bokuto’s words are lost to the wind as the other side comes into view. 

Gardens in muted colors span as far as the eye can see underneath a gray sky. Cobbled walkways twist and turn ahead, shifting and changing course even as one is walking on them, made of stone so dark Kenma is afraid he’ll fall through. It’s loud, but peaceful - there is no war, no love, no light, just the gentle chatter of people who had already done all they could do. Spirits mill around, appearance ranging from solid and glowing so bright Kenma has to look away to faint wisps of other-light that look more like a smudge than anything that once was tangible. Some of the brighter ones are interacting, while the dimmer ones seem to possess no purpose or function. 

Akaashi’s laugh snaps Kenma out of his stupor, and he looks to the side to see the god looking back at him, dark eyes deep and sweeping. “I suppose I’ve gotten used to the sight,” they admit, turning back to face the sprawling gardens and the ruler of them all in its midst, bending the very fabric of the Underground to his will. “But it must seem pretty amazing to a mortal like you, huh?”

Kenma makes a humming noise in the back of his throat. Even now, when he’s in the company of mythical beings, he can still feel that deep, aching hole in the recesses of his heart, can feel the coldness between his fingers where another hand should be. He closes his eyes briefly and forgets about the gardens, the gods, the low light of the world of the dead, and instead remembers dark hair, calloused fingers, a fond smile. A voice, deep and slow and painfully familiar, calling his name.

_ Why are you wasting your time _ ? The voice asks.  _ You know what you came for _ .

“Where is he?” he asks, and Akaashi and Bokuto both turn simultaneously to regard him. “I came here to get him back.”

He jumps when Akaashi sighs, fixating their husband with a look full of exasperation and, deep beneath it, time-worn adoration. “You forgot to tell him the rules, didn’t you?”

Bokuto yelps and scrambles back to stand beside them. “Right, right, that. You know the one rule, right?”

Kenma blinks. Bokuto squeaks. Akaashi mutters something along the lines of  _ why must I suffer like this _ under their breath. “There are rules?”

“It’s simple, Kozume Kenma,” Bokuto says over his shoulder, turning to leave again. “If you really want him back, there’s only one condition you have to obey.” 

“What’s that?”

Despite his penchant for owls, the king of the Underworld’s smile is wolfish. “Don’t look back.”

\--

“Move in with me.”

Kenma glances up. “What?”

Kuroo shrugs, the epitome of casual nonchalance, but Kenma has known him long enough to read the stiffness in the way he holds himself, leaning against the kitchen counter. “You practically live here anyways,” he says into his mug, bedhead obscuring his eyes from view. “Wouldn’t take much for you to make the transition. Besides, we all know you can’t function without me.”

Kenma scoffs, turning his attention back to his new game. “It takes too much time,” he says, even though he knows Kuroo’s right. “Besides, Shoyou is better company than you anyways.”  _ Even though he’s practically living with his own setter _ , he doesn’t bother to add.

“Come on,” Kuroo whines, giving him a face Kenma pretends to be unaffected by. “It’ll be easier for us when we get married anyway.”

Kenma momentarily short-circuits, then gathers himself again and turns away. “Stop saying it so casually. It’s embarrassing.”

“I’ve embarrassed you for fifteen years, not like it matters much anymore,” Kuroo says, and Kenma doesn’t get a warning before he’s tackled to the ground, fingers finding his sensitive spots and tickling him mercilessly. He almost drops his PSP, managing last-minute to put it down gently before he returns to dying. Without permission, laughter bubbles up from inside of him, kept away and building up for so long under layers of nonchalance that it’s loud enough to echo through the entire apartment. The floor is dirty - it’s Kuroo, after all - and there’s dust and books everywhere, but Kenma can’t bring himself to mind as he laughs and laughs, until he’s not sure whether it’s from the tickling or from the genuine happiness bursting his seams.

He’s still laughing when Kuroo stops moving, and it takes him a second before he opens his eyes, giggles dying to silence. Kuroo is staring at him with a fondness, an adoration, a  _ reverence _ he would never believe in a million years that he’d deserve to receive. The bluish light of dusk is shifting behind Kuroo’s back, and his eyes are almost glowing in the half-dark, and the only thing Kenma can think right now is  _ wow, you’re beautiful. _

“Can I… can I kiss you?” Kuroo whispers, more hesitant and unsure than he’s ever been his entire life, as if he’s the one who doesn’t deserve Kenma and not the other way around. 

All Kenma can say is, “Please.”

\--

Kuroo is standing in the middle of a wide field, surrounded by tall grasses and golden sunlight. Even in a completely unfamiliar environment, he is still breathtakingly familiar and blindingly beautiful, exactly the way Kenma remembered him. 

Kenma walks closer, hesitant despite the years they’ve known each other. Kuroo hasn’t seen him yet, standing with his head tilted to the sky, so similar and yet so different from that day at the train station when Kenma realized  _ oh, I can’t live without this boy. _

“Kuroo.” his voice cracks, but he ignores it; in the corner of his eye, he sees Akaashi dragging a curious Bokuto away, shooting him a concerned glance. He can’t seem to respond to it; he’s too focused on the way Kuroo’s entire frame tenses as he turns around until they’re face to face.

Despite the years that Kenma has known him and his tendency to be an open book while he was still alive, Kuroo’s expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between overjoyed and defeated, as if he’d known Kenma was coming and, for some reason, hoped it didn’t happen.

“Kenma,” he says, and Kenma almost breaks down crying right there at the sound of his voice, like honey and gold and the depths of the ocean. “Why are you here?”

“I came here for you,” Kenma says, taking a hesitant step closer, until Kuroo is within arm’s reach. He reaches out - slowly, aware of the way Kuroo flinches - and grabs onto his bright red Nekoma jersey, the one he’d refused year after year to throw or give away. Despite being a ghost, Kuroo is fully tangible, warm to the touch. “I came here to get you back.”

“Why?” Kuroo’s voice is soft, so quiet it’s barely audible, and Kenma has to lean in to hear him properly. The role reversal would make him laugh if he weren’t, you know,  _ rescuing his dead boyfriend from the Underworld _ . “Why did you come for me?”

“Because,” Kenma says, leaning away when Kuroo makes no move to pull him closer like he always used to do, “your bookshop needs you. Our apartment needs you. Our old teammates need you. Your  _ new _ teammates need you. Kuroo,  _ I  _ need you.”

“No, you don’t,” and this time Kuroo pulls away completely, turning his back to him, and Kenma doesn’t understand why he’s the one setting up barriers when Kenma has always been surrounded by walls. “You’re not half a person. I’m not half of you. I’ve always told you that I thought those love stereotypes were absolute fucking  _ bullshit _ , and I’m telling you again, Kozume.” Kenma flinches at the use of his family name, used only in their worst fights. “You are one whole person. You are a human. You need food, and water, and shelter, but you damn well don’t need someone else to stay alive. It’s fucking science!  _ You don’t need me, Kenma _ . Stop being ridiculous.”

“Kuroo-” Kenma doesn’t know what else to say, can’t form words through the cold despair bubbling up in his chest.

“You should’ve never come here!” Kenma can tell he’s one notch away from fury from the anger building up in his voice. “You should’ve stayed away!”

“Tetsu…” Kenma says, and hates how scared his voice sounds, like he’s some helpless conquest from a shitty RPG.

It seems to flip a switch, though, because suddenly Kuroo is turning back to him, eyes wide with frantic worry. “No, no, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he stammers, stumbling over his words as he rushes back to Kenma’s side, gripping his shoulders and scanning his face with an intimacy Kenma doesn’t know if he craves or despises. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you,” he insists.

“It’s okay,” he mutters, and focuses more on the raging self-hate in Kuroo’s eyes and less on the truth of what he’d just said. Because despite what Kenma has been subconsciously insisting to himself all along, he knows it’s true, knows that he  _ can  _ exist without Kuroo despite what every fiber of his being is telling him. “Stop feeling bad for saying things you couldn’t control. It’s not your fault.”

Kuroo opens his mouth to say something, then seems to reconsider as he takes a step back and pushes a hand through his hair. Between them, an invisible chasm seems to form, growing bigger the further they are from each other. “Listen, I…” he stares at the sky. “I don’t blame you for coming here, Kenma,” he says, finally, voice hoarse. “If the roles had been reversed, I would’ve done the same thing. That’s why I’m telling you what you would’ve told me.”

“What would I have told you?” Kenma asks, quieter than before, but Kuroo doesn’t move closer.

“To  _ move on _ , Kenma. Because you have a full life ahead of you - you’re working on your doctorate right now, you’ve got multiple job offers lined up after you’re done - you can be successful, and happy, and I don’t want to drag you down. You deserve more than a life with a shadow constantly behind you, Kenma. You deserve more than loving someone who’s dead.

“I know it’s going to be hard, but you  _ have to _ . I won’t forgive myself if you don’t.” Kenma realizes that the reason he hasn’t started crying out of frustration is because he’s shaking his head so hard, unwilling to accept what Kuroo’s saying.  _ I’m so close, _ he thinks.  _ I’m so close, so why can’t I reach you _ ?

“I can’t  _ un _ -love you, dumbass,” he says, and Kuroo’s eyes soften at that, the chasm between them narrowing just slightly. “It doesn’t feel right anymore.”

“I know. I’ll always love you, too. I’ll always be waiting for you here. But that doesn’t mean you have to wait for me. Hey,” and suddenly he’s so close, holding Kenma’s face in his hands, “what did Bokuto tell you? Before you came here? What’s the one rule?”

Kenma stares at him, uncomprehending, the hands on either side of his face burning through his skin. Kuroo is beautiful, so beautiful, and Kenma wishes he’d told him he loved him more when he was still alive. “The rule to get you back?”

“No. The rule to get  _ you _ back. The rule to move on. The rule to be happy again. Say it for me, Kenma.”

Kenma closes his eyes, and begins to let go. “Don’t look back.”

When he opens them again, Kuroo is gone.

\--

Some people say they can vividly recall the day they were informed of their lover’s death. Kenma wishes he had this luxury, so he could come up with alternate possibilities, like one of those books kids read with the multiple endings.

For example: if it were a rainy day, Kuroo would be dripping wet, his hair flat against his forehead and shoulders glistening with rainwater. Kenma would scold him for forgetting to bring an umbrella even after he’d reminded him the day before, and if he tried to protest, would maybe sling the towel he’d already be holding around the back of his neck and use it to pull him in for a kiss. If it were sunny, Kuroo would come home, grab Kenma by the wrist regardless of where he was or what he was wearing, and drag him outside to play volleyball, like the old times. If Kenma could have just remembered something, anything, maybe it would hurt less.

But instead, all Kenma gets is the world rocking around him, edges blurring until he can’t see anything except flashing lights, blue uniforms and “sorry, Kuroo is dead.”

_ Sorry, Kuroo is dead. _

“I don’t understand,” he says, but in truth, he understands everything. He understands everything - that Kuroo is gone, that he is alone, and the role he is expected to play. “Excuse me,” he says, and goes to his room,  _ their  _ room, to scream until his throat burns and his tears run out. 

When he emerges, he goes back to being the placid, deadpan Kenma everyone knows and expects, so unaffected and untroubled by his partner and best friend’s death that people will begin to wonder if he really loved Kuroo, or if he’s really human. It doesn’t matter to him. For once in his life, he doesn’t care about what anyone thinks about him - he knows, somewhere underneath the blinding agony, that his friends understand, and that’s all that matters.

When the metaphorical storm clears and he learns to breathe through the pain, he knows what he has to do.

\--

It’s sunny outside when Kenma reaches the cemetery gates, but for once he feels anything but empty.

It’s been a year since he woke up at midnight, pillow soaked with tears, Kuroo’s words echoing in his head. One year, and even though the space between his fingers still feels cold and the bed still seems too big, he’s learning to move on.  _ Slowly but surely. Keep it connected, like the blood flowing through our veins. _

_ Don’t look back. _

“Hey, Kenma!” It’s Shoyou, bounding over with Kageyama in tow, still full of energy. Both sport damp hair and wide grins, and Kenma knows without even having seen the match that they’d won the tournament.

“Hey, Shoyou. Hey, Kageyama. The game went well, right?”

“Yup!” He skids to a stop, barely avoiding collision, and Kenma feels tired just looking at him. “Man, Americans are no joke! I swear that one guy was almost seven feet tall! And they were all BAM and the ace went WOOSH-”

“Dumbass, you say that every time we play,” Kageyama mumbles. “They all just look tall because you’re so short.”

“You jerk!” His comment starts another cat fight, and Kenma deems it appropriate to leave. Two silhouettes off in the near distance look familiar, and he calls out to both of them, raising his hand in a wave.

“Hey, Kenma!” Yaku waves back, nudging the tall man next to him. “Oi, Kai, look who it is.” There’s a smile on his face, but the motherly concern in his eyes makes his next question evident.

“You’re trying to figure out how to ask if I’m okay without seeming pushy or making me feel worse,” Kenma says, holding back a laugh when Yaku squawks. Kai, true to his nature, just looks on in exasperated amusement. “I’m doing well. How are-”

“Hey! Kenma! KENMA! KOZUME-KUN!”

“-you,” Kenma finishes, already feeling defeated as a bundle of silver hair, long limbs and impending exhaustion bounces over to join them. “Hi, Lev.”

Yaku laughs, casually kicking the newcomer in the rear as he tries to make another joke about ‘wow, you look even shorter than the last time I saw you!’. 

“I’m alright. Kai and I were about to drive over to watch the Nekoma-Karasuno match at the gymnasium. I guess we started a trend,” and Yaku’s grin turns proud, “how many years of going to nationals in a row has it been now? Five?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Kenma admits. “We owe a lot of it to Kuro, though.”

A respectful silence falls over the group, which Kai eventually breaks. “Hey, so we could give you a ride after you’re done, if you want to come watch the game with us.”

Kenma thinks it over. He hasn’t been to a match in a while, nostalgia and a packed schedule keeping any opportunities at bay. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to go, though - watch a new, unfamiliar team carry on an old, familiar name. “Just give me five minutes and I’ll join you,” he tells the group, and they exchange temporary farewells as they split up. Lev gets another kick, something he might never outgrow.

Kuroo’s tombstone is a bright white - untouched by time, unlike the more mottled gray ones around it. Even dead, evidence of his popularity still lingers in the plethora of offerings scattered on the ground. A volleyball here, a cat plushie there, a comb for irony’s sake. Kenma sits in front of it, staring at the name engraved in the smooth marble  _ Kuroo Tetsurou. _

In most stories, this is where Kenma begins talking, giving a heartfelt speech about how he’s heeding Kuroo’s words and moving on. But Kenma has never been good at expressing how he feels through words, and he knows that down there, beneath miles of dirt and rock in those vast gray gardens, Kuroo is looking at him, smiling, knowing exactly what he’s thinking about. So he says nothing, but instead fishes his PSP out of his pocket - the broken one, of course, because he’s not that much of a sap - and puts it down on the ground, right in the middle of the pile of offerings, stands up, and smiles.

“See you next year, Tetsurou,” he says, and runs back to join the others.

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhh sorry not sorry about that ending #noregrets  
> also i hardcore headcanon all the gods as various team captains/managers playing godly volleyball  
> ps. in case you were wondering yes ushiwaka is zeus and daichi is poseidon (oikawa is charon but only because i couldn't write him as apollo)


End file.
